


[Bodice] Ripper

by hanktalkin



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: Due to the radical change in environment, over performing college freshmen tend to display severe anxiety issues in their first year of university, and must either adapt quickly to new standards placed by higher education, or spiral into mental breakdown. An introverted and hyper-focused individual, Claudette Morel finds outlets for highly stressful situations in the form of That Good Dick™. In this essay I will





	[Bodice] Ripper

_tap---tap---tap---tap_

The pencil’s dull end was the only part that had touched the paper in over thirty minutes. All Claudette could hear over hear own headache was the thrum of the party across the hall, the primal baseline that beat through two layers of wall and into her cranium.

_tap---tap---tap---tap---tap_

She may as well have been looking at hieroglyphs for all studying was doing her. Bio Chem was at 8am, and each hour slipped away like water down a drain, pressure inside of her skull that throbbed along with the deep _wumpWUMPwumpWump_ of the stereo.

…And it wasn’t the only thing that throbbed.

_tap--tap--tap--tap_

Try as she might that little flittering thought landed on her again, that _he_ was over there, one room away. Stupid, _stupid_ thought but still it persisted, like a vestigial pit in a fruit that no longer needed it.

And like a fruit she clung to it, her lower body twitching in time to the music, the concentration she needed long since fled her. She couldn’t even blame it entirely on _him_ because her senses had left before the party even started, the exam holding thirty percent of her grade hostage until the only thing she could help but believe was that she would fail and then die and then live her miserable life alone

_tap--tap--tap--tap_

What was the goddamn point of even sitting here? Or of going to bed? Neither location would get her what she wanted

_tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_

_Really_ wanted

_taptaptaptaptaptap_

_Needed_

taptaptap-SNAP.

She stood, tossing the broken pencil aside.

The party was bright neon and red cups and lots of things that didn’t matter as she maneuvered through drunk freshmen. It could have taken an hour or nothing at all to locate her target, up against a wall with a drink in hand.

“Hey Javon.”

The slide in his shoulders betrayed his surprise. “Oh…Hey Claudette. Didn’t think you’d be here.”

A fair assumption. Usually she’d be too busy to get plastered and wear lampshades, but tonight was different. Tonight she had a purpose.

She leaned one hand against the wall beside him. “Do you want go somewhere private?”

“Uh…” She saw him swallow nervously, face green from the cheap glowstick around his neck.

It’s not like there was no run-up here. She’d seen the way he’d look at her during lecture, his ever so subtle spasms when she stretched her arms above her head and the edge of her shirt rode up. He was nice—that specific kind of nice, just for her. She never meant to ignore, never _wanted_ to ignore, but with every class pressing her from all sides she’d forced herself to file away anything that might be

indulgent.

“Right…right now?”

God he was hot when he was stuttering. It felt off, to be the pursuer than the persuee, but if this is what it took then she would _make_ him go for the kill.

“Yes. Right right now.”

Javon fumbled with his drink for a second, panicked when he found nowhere to put it, then dumped it in a plant. It was like watching a dog be offered a full plate of sausages as she held out her hand to him, his fingers grabbing hers like it was just too good to be true. There were people nearby, friends of Javon’s maybe, but Claudette ignored them as she pulled him into some poor kid’s bedroom. None of them mattered.

He mattered. She mattered.

And she made sure he made her scream.

At first he’d been hesitant, maybe thinking she couldn’t really want as hard as she said she wanted it, but by the end of the night there were fingerprints on her ass and bruise on the back of her neck. His hesitation might have been cute if she didn’t have business to get down to. Too sweet. Too gentle for Claudette Morel. But when she woke up to her phone beeping at 7am, thighs quaking and a blessed stillness in her skull, she figured it got the job done.

She got a 98 on in Bio Chem that term.

* * *

When her life changed, when all their lives changed, she thought for sure she would be the first to go.

And she was right, in a sense. But what made it different from any zombie movie or horror flick she’d ever seen, is that _here_ when you get your chest burst open, you still come crawling home, the weakest link breaking and then being welded right back into place. They hide and tuck away as a team, each of her missteps paid communally, equal distribution of punishment. And, sometimes, when gentle hands slide under her armpits and hoist, she wants to scream, _leave me just leave me I’m only making it worse._

But mostly she’s too selfish to even think it.

So they save her, and protect her, and look at her with tired eyes when her fumbling hands make sparks fly. She has people she could depend on.

Lucky her.

She’s pathetic and everyone pretends not to notice. They tell her that her little herbal mixtures have really come in handy, that she has “people skills.” They know what they’re doing and they give her cheerful smiles because they realize she’s one harsh word away from a breakdown. She’s weak and useless and everyone pretends not to notice

save one.

Because Jake Park honestly does not give a fuck.

He goes through this whole world like it means nothing, like everyone that happens was meant to happen: a boy unstuck in time. If she drives a needle in his shoulder and gets him caught, he doesn’t care in the slightest. If his own mistakes end in anyone dead, it might as well be another unchanging facet of the Entity—something to observe, accept, and move on. He doesn’t have hope the way the others do, and as they sit around the fire preparing for another night, Claudette can’t figure what the _hell_ he runs on besides pure, undiluted determination.

He’s lighthouse and she’s a sinking ship.

(A fucked metaphor. You see the light and you sail _away_

unless you’re so far underwater that any sign of life is your salvation.)

It probably isn’t healthy the way her eyes cling to him, how he’s slowly becoming her fixation. But when the alternative is thinking about how a man knelt on her back and jolted her with 50,000 volts of electricity less than an hour ago, watching Jake poke the fire with a stick is immensely preferable.

She imagines him naked. She imagines her naked. Then she imagines him railing her against a tree while she screams his name.

It’s a nice thought.

* * *

They chew through a generator together like it’s their last meal. He has an uncanny knack for knowing when something is about to go wrong, a sense for the way the forest quiets when one of Them approaches. She always wonders how he does it. Wants to ask him some day.

Not today, not now as his head twitches in the direction of the hunting lodge. No time to even ask him _what’s wrong_ , let alone _how do you know_ , before he lunges at her, tackling her into the surrounding grass. Wet blades stick up, getting in her nose, bending double against her already fogging glasses—they’re surrounded by cover, his body flat on top of hers

waiting.

Strangled displeasure catches in her through, a normal reaction that’s a death sentence in an abnormal place. Things like speaking and breathing are slowly being trained out of her. Her lungs compress as she listens…three beats…nine beats…her body the only definite unit of measurement here. But then she knows what Jake knows: a Hunter above them, view blocked just long enough that their ducking extraction into the foliage could be missed.

Not just any Hunter but a _Huntress_ , her mask scanning with a childlike innocence. Curiosity. Consideration. For a half second she pauses, and Claudette only has time to think _oh no_.

Then she puts her boot through the generator undoing the past half-hour’s work, stalking away into the night with hum on her lips.

It’s shitty. But they’re alive. Damp, rain covered, but alive. Claudette’s frozen for a half dozen seconds longer, Jake peeling off her and returning to work. Maybe it’d be wise to wait in case their pursuer circles back, just to be safe, but his hands are already moving deftly and she’s enraptured with his visage, suspend by the sheer perfunctoriness of it all.

And for once, in strange disjointed moment, his black eyes shift from his current objective onto her.

She stares back, not even thinking to avert her gaze, or deny the specific kind of heat crawling into the base of her stomach. He sees her. _Sees_ her. And she knows in exactly what way.

She crawls up, leaves those weakened doubts behind. Solidifies into a rocklike resolution that is going to get her exactly where she needs to be.

* * *

Her pins her against a tree so hard she gets chips in the back of her head. His forearm is pinned under her throat and she scrambles, fingers finding his shoulders and pulling him close, grinding his leg up against her desire in a disjointed attempt to communicate just how badly she _wants_.

It’s not exactly her erstwhile fantasy, but it’s pretty damn close.

His mouth closes over hers, consuming, and she barely remembers to breath through her nose as he lets her throat free. She can feel his hard-on against her stomach, a stabbing reminder of the height difference that only goes to fuel the flush beneath her skin. It’s a different kind of violence, controlling but safe—amnesty from a world that wants her to hurt in much worse ways. Maybe she’s not supposed to want this, supposed to shy away from any sort of brutality after what she’s gone ~~going~~ through

but damn if it isn’t cathartic.

She pulls her tongue out of his mouth and he likewise releases. Instead he digs into her collarbone, a snarl that’s so comfortingly human that she lets loose a silent keen.

Breathily, unthinking, she mutters, “you’d make a good Hunter.”

He shoves her. Again. She doesn’t think it’s retaliation, but even if it were, there’s no true anger underneath his hands. He grabs both sides of her shirt and

_riiiiiipppp_

tears. At least two buttons go flying onto the forest floor.

He needs to get on one knee to reach her breasts with his mouth, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin around her nipples. This time she can’t keep down the pitch of her moan, letting it reverberate feebly as he sucks heartily between each of her nubs. It took seconds and suddenly he knows everything, all the intimate details of her body: where she’s slightly ticklish along her sternum, how erogenous the back of her calves are. She squirms, a hand managing to tangle in the wild black silk of his hair, her knee resting on his hip as he makes her forget.

Far away, a twig snaps.

It’s nothing. Maybe the distant fire, maybe any of the numerous animals the Entity has conjured for this place; but it’s enough that the fantasy’s hold is shattered.

(They’re just frayed like that.)

They pause, her chest rising and falling as coolness pervades them. Slowly, he rises, leaving bruises on her chest as a parting gift, and her forehead scrunches in unsaid disappointment.

She’s prickled and frustrated, but neither of them are willing to return, the realization that they’ve taken this _too far_ hard to get back from. It’s in the middle of buttoning her shirt back up that she captures his eyes with her own

a rarity in only so many chances

and shares in the knowledge that despite _too far_ , this isn’t over.

* * *

_What are you so afraid of?_

is a good question.

_This_

is the answer.

The Wraith hauls her by the leg, letting her scramble helplessly in the dirt as her nails fill with black, branches stabbing through thin fabric in her backwards slide. At first she doesn’t know why. This is strange even for one of Them. She doesn’t get it, not until he drags her under the waiting audience of Jake’s hook.

She see’s him, ever so briefly, one sideways glace over the shoulder, and she has enough time to wonder _what the hell is this all about?_

before the Wraith drags his blade along her spine.

She screams. (Of course she screams. Who wouldn’t?) She can do nothing but _scream_. And as the Hunter brings his blade down again and again on her shredded body she can still hear the distinctive sound of _him_.

It’s not something she ever thought she would hear: the absolute pinnacle of _dismay_ a human throat could make. Hear it she does, even between her own wails, and she never ever ever ever wants to again.

In the end, it isn’t the sound itself that breaks her. It’s the fact that it’s Jake. And Jake doesn’t care. Shouldn’t. At all.

* * *

They walk weakly through the woods.

The nightly trudge after rebirth is always a slow one, but even so they’ve fallen behind, the others disappearing into the mist that sometimes goes on forever if the Entity feels like being funny. He hovers, it’s the only right word for it, like he’s expecting her to wrap her arms and lean on him. She won’t. It wouldn’t fit right, would be too damn gentle for Claudette Morel.

(He’s only waiting because he thinks that’s what she wants from him.

She doesn’t.)

She stops, breezeless night wrapping around her, stagnant like old pond cultures left to rot. He turns too, expectant. For her to pick up the pace, to overcome and move on

or to do something different for a change.

One, two steps and she’s on him, grabbing down the ratty edges of his scarf and pulling, exposing the sharp philtum of his mouth at the same time she collides with it. He’s slower to respond than before, and that’s almost a relief in of itself, deliberation that lets her settle into her choice like it’s quicksand.

The shaking is gone now, and she longs for him, all of him, as their old hesitation seems foolish now. After all, what’s one more exposure? So many wounds in this woods, one more won’t do them in. Body heat leading to static leading to just plain _hot_ as she grinds forward.

It all slows as it hits him too. He pulls back, those dark eyes searching hers, that slight crinkle at the corner indicating he used to smile. Once. He reaches up and takes her glasses off her face, folding them in the same precise movements that he works with his tools, _clip clip_ , back into place.

Then he spins her around and shoves her onto the forest floor.

The bubbling moan that’s been curling inside her bursts, unstoppable, gut wrenching echo that it is, and reverberates into the fresh soil as Jake clambers down behind her. She’s on her knees, the flat of his hand between her shoulder blades as he presses _down_ —a reminder to _stay_ , but also that slightly flex of power that makes her whimper for more _more_.

He listens. A hand slips down the waistband of her jeans and presses experimentally against her clit, throbbing so hard now that even the slight touch leaves her gasping into the loam. His other hand moves to the back of her head, pinning her cheek until she smells earth and musk all roll into one. A whine, desperate, needing, escapes as the pressure around her clit withdraws, but it’s replaced with _please_ as she hears him undoing the front of his pants.

It’s too much clothing, too tight, constraining. She’d imagined them as bare as the day they were born but things can’t always happen the way you want in this place. Often don’t. Her eyes flutter closed.

His hand is back, and he’s free of his pants enough that he can swing unfettered against her. She doesn’t move as he untangles her slacks, slipping down to her thighs and then back up again as he gives her pussy a gentle rub, his chest slowly lowering to rest on her back. It only takes a gentle arch of her spine to feel him, to reach his back as fingers spread her open, her mouth a gaping pant. It’s all sensation now, the black of her eyelids keeping out the dark and the damp, nothing but _him_ as he pinches her nipples again. She chokes, squeak catching in her throat as he rams in.

A branch whips overhead and she thinks _yeah. Hope you enjoy the show._

He supports himself on his arms and on her, crushing her into the foliage, _dominating_ her, and she couldn’t ask for anything more. The fullness of him is inside her, slickly finding its way like it was made for this.

There’s hitch, something her impatience rises to, but then he wraps one arm around her neck and _goes_.

It’s everything she’s been needing. Not just need but desperate for, starving for the way he slams her down with every forceful shift of his body. She sinks her nails into floor and howls, her eyes scrunched as her unbraiding drivel turns to, “Jake, Jake, Jake, Jake.”

_jake-jake-jake-jake_

He’s not restraining himself. She can sense it in the way his breaths puff hot against the side of her face, the way his fingers curl as she briefly peeks between her lashes. But she doesn’t have much time to think about him in the context of what _he_ feels, not when what he’s doing takes the whole of her.

Devouring. That’s the only way to describe it. It’s how she’s always thought of this need she had for other people, how things didn’t feel right until she could ride out every overpowering thought in her head with pure unadulterated pleasure. It’s a good descriptor, now more than ever, as he takes her to the end and back.

Her arms give out before he gives in. Gasping, shuddering, she falls even further on her face as his weight presses down on her, and she tightens around his cock. It’s enough, and his cry in her ear is beautiful, seed filling ever crevice of her insides as they shudder to a halt.

_jake--jake--jake--jake_

Sweat spills down the curve of her spine.

_jake…jake…jake…_

“ _Claudette_ ,” comes the reply.

She almost misses it in the exhaustion that’s overcome her, the silence taking her out of the storm and onto the shore. All she wants is to stay here, him still in her, until the Entity has to _drag_ her out of here. Like he’s reading her mind, he shuffles closer, arms wrapping around her chest, happy to oblige. 


End file.
